Le Coeur d'un Vampire
Note: A newly revised (and soon to be continued) version of Le Coeur d'un Vampire. I haven't touched this story is a *very* long time and I apologize. As always, none of the characters belong to the writer, and no profit is being made from this story.
Prologue
The smell hit her: incense, dust and blood. It was familiar enough, for Hermione's work with the Ministry's Agency of Internal Affairs--cleanup crew, these days--kept her in constant surveillance of Knockturn Alley. Still, frequent it as she might, Borgin & Burkes never failed to turn her stomach.
Ironic, wasn't it? Years ago, the prospect of books, any books, would have been a matter of delight. Too many scars now for this little trip, one of many, to be the subject of anything but dread.
"The book you requested, Miss Granger," the proprietor said stiffly. She nodded. And whipped around--her instincts had been refined in the past few years--and she found herself looking up into familiar blue eyes. "Well, well, well, Miss Granger," Malfoy purred. Malfoy the younger, to be specific, although it had been getting increasingly difficult to tell them apart, even when Draco was still at school. Still pale, still icy-blond...No one knew if Lucius had been killed, but he hadn't been seen for a very long time. "Fancy seeing you here," she muttered vaguely. Malfoy had never been convicted. On the other hand, neither had his father.
"You don't sound particularly pleased," he said, trying to sound hurt.
"Should I be?" she asked, calmly. This is just what I need! she screamed inside her head, well aware of how childish she seemed and of how little talent she had for such Slytherin word games. Where the hell was Borgin?! (Or Burkes, for that matter; she never knew which was which.) Both men had a huge talent for vanishing just when you needed them, be it with information on a book or getting rid of a dangerous black wizard.
"One would think," he purred (and was he getting closer to her?) "That a chance meeting with an old school chum would be rather pleasant. There are so many things you and I could discuss..." There was a threat in that somewhere, but she couldn't quite determine what it was.
"Knockturn Alley is hardly the place for reunions."
Hermione, against her better judgement, was getting frightened. She hadn't seen Malfoy since school, and he'd been pretty intimidating then. A foot of height and seven years of practice improved the effect a great deal. Besides being tall, Malfoy the younger was almost impossibly handsome. The gray eyes were framed by light blond eyelashes, giving him almost the appearance of a bleach-blond Ken doll.
"True enough, Miss Granger. Or perhaps I can call you Hermione? We must be past all that formality by now, don't you think? One ought to keep one's guard up a little better in Knockturn, by the way. Particularly when they aren't exactly welcome. You never know what sort are hanging about." Malfoy edged a little closer to her, and placed a hand on her shoulder. Friendly. Kind. Hermione's skin crawled. "Or what their intentions are...Perhaps I ought to escort you somewhere more pleasant..."
Somewhere in all her ministry training there should be some sort of procedure for something like this. She wracked her brain, found nothing of use.
"Go away, Draco," said someone in a very bored--and very commanding--voice. It wasn't the proprietor; he would never have that authority, not even when telling people that drinks were not allowed in his store. Hermione and Malfoy both turned. "Go have a drink."
Malfoy took a half step backward. Hermione watched him with interest. He gave her a distracted glare, shook his head, blinked, and left, wearing a very uncharacteristic blank look.
Borgin & Burkes sold mostly books, at least in the front room, but there was a ring of chairs and couches around a small stove fire. The only occupant of the room was lounged across a couch, one hand flung across its back and the other delicately holding a wineglass.
The place was always dim, and the light of the fire fell in a rather intimidating grid pattern, but the man looked oddly familiar. She took a few steps closer, trying to balance dignity and courtesy, and fighting a strong urge to pay for her books and be Somewhere Else Right Now, which seemed to be the sentiment of the occupant of the couch as well.
"No. Go away, Granger."
Hermione was suddenly swept up in an even stronger desire to leave. Rather like the Imperius curse, except she was almost sure she could fight it. He gave a small exasperated sigh when she half turned but didn't move.
"Hell and earth, go away, girl. You have your book. Nice book, I'm sure, and you're very eager to read it. Go home now." There was a hint of anger, but, more than that, of overwhelming weariness. Something about the voice was familiar. (Unpleasant, but familiar nonetheless.)
Feeling as if her brain was packed in cotton, and her feet determined to try to turn around with every step, she walked awkwardly around the front of the couch. The long fingers curled delicately around the stem of the wine glass, and the voice, and the sneer, and the face on which the sneer rested so well all belonged (and could only belong) to one Professor Severus Snape.
But..."...You're dead..." Hermione said, feeling like an idiot before the words were out of her mouth.
"And I'm well aware of it," he said, more testy than angry. "Go away."
Note: A newly revised (and soon to be continued) version of Le Coeur d'un Vampire. I haven't touched this story is a *very* long time and I apologize. As always, none of the characters belong to the writer, and no profit is being made from this story.
Prologue
The smell hit her: incense, dust and blood. It was familiar enough, for Hermione's work with the Ministry's Agency of Internal Affairs--cleanup crew, these days--kept her in constant surveillance of Knockturn Alley. Still, frequent it as she might, Borgin & Burkes never failed to turn her stomach.
Ironic, wasn't it? Years ago, the prospect of books, any books, would have been a matter of delight. Too many scars now for this little trip, one of many, to be the subject of anything but dread.
"The book you requested, Miss Granger," the proprietor said stiffly. She nodded. And whipped around--her instincts had been refined in the past few years--and she found herself looking up into familiar blue eyes. "Well, well, well, Miss Granger," Malfoy purred. Malfoy the younger, to be specific, although it had been getting increasingly difficult to tell them apart, even when Draco was still at school. Still pale, still icy-blond...No one knew if Lucius had been killed, but he hadn't been seen for a very long time. "Fancy seeing you here," she muttered vaguely. Malfoy had never been convicted. On the other hand, neither had his father.
"You don't sound particularly pleased," he said, trying to sound hurt.
"Should I be?" she asked, calmly. This is just what I need! she screamed inside her head, well aware of how childish she seemed and of how little talent she had for such Slytherin word games. Where the hell was Borgin?! (Or Burkes, for that matter; she never knew which was which.) Both men had a huge talent for vanishing just when you needed them, be it with information on a book or getting rid of a dangerous black wizard.
"One would think," he purred (and was he getting closer to her?) "That a chance meeting with an old school chum would be rather pleasant. There are so many things you and I could discuss..." There was a threat in that somewhere, but she couldn't quite determine what it was.
"Knockturn Alley is hardly the place for reunions."
Hermione, against her better judgement, was getting frightened. She hadn't seen Malfoy since school, and he'd been pretty intimidating then. A foot of height and seven years of practice improved the effect a great deal. Besides being tall, Malfoy the younger was almost impossibly handsome. The gray eyes were framed by light blond eyelashes, giving him almost the appearance of a bleach-blond Ken doll.
"True enough, Miss Granger. Or perhaps I can call you Hermione? We must be past all that formality by now, don't you think? One ought to keep one's guard up a little better in Knockturn, by the way. Particularly when they aren't exactly welcome. You never know what sort are hanging about." Malfoy edged a little closer to her, and placed a hand on her shoulder. Friendly. Kind. Hermione's skin crawled. "Or what their intentions are...Perhaps I ought to escort you somewhere more pleasant..."
Somewhere in all her ministry training there should be some sort of procedure for something like this. She wracked her brain, found nothing of use.
"Go away, Draco," said someone in a very bored--and very commanding--voice. It wasn't the proprietor; he would never have that authority, not even when telling people that drinks were not allowed in his store. Hermione and Malfoy both turned. "Go have a drink."
Malfoy took a half step backward. Hermione watched him with interest. He gave her a distracted glare, shook his head, blinked, and left, wearing a very uncharacteristic blank look.
Borgin & Burkes sold mostly books, at least in the front room, but there was a ring of chairs and couches around a small stove fire. The only occupant of the room was lounged across a couch, one hand flung across its back and the other delicately holding a wineglass.
The place was always dim, and the light of the fire fell in a rather intimidating grid pattern, but the man looked oddly familiar. She took a few steps closer, trying to balance dignity and courtesy, and fighting a strong urge to pay for her books and be Somewhere Else Right Now, which seemed to be the sentiment of the occupant of the couch as well.
"No. Go away, Granger."
Hermione was suddenly swept up in an even stronger desire to leave. Rather like the Imperius curse, except she was almost sure she could fight it. He gave a small exasperated sigh when she half turned but didn't move.
"Hell and earth, go away, girl. You have your book. Nice book, I'm sure, and you're very eager to read it. Go home now." There was a hint of anger, but, more than that, of overwhelming weariness. Something about the voice was familiar. (Unpleasant, but familiar nonetheless.)
Feeling as if her brain was packed in cotton, and her feet determined to try to turn around with every step, she walked awkwardly around the front of the couch. The long fingers curled delicately around the stem of the wine glass, and the voice, and the sneer, and the face on which the sneer rested so well all belonged (and could only belong) to one Professor Severus Snape.
But..."...You're dead..." Hermione said, feeling like an idiot before the words were out of her mouth.
"And I'm well aware of it," he said, more testy than angry. "Go away."